Capital Sam is in his quarters at the bottom of the ocean, stretched out on his fainting couch, starting the first pipe of the day. His room is easily the most cluttered in Feddema HQ, piled high with books, maps, swords and pistols, antique jewelry, a gigantic mirror in a black rococo frame, erotic lithographs taking up most of the south wall, mounted animal heads taking up most of the north, fragments of harps or lutes, a birdcage, a bamboo opium pipe, a sextant, an astrolabe, an armillary sphere, a fucking orrery, &c.

When the wall intercom buzzes, it takes him a few moments to navigate the clutter. He presses the button and says: “Ahoy.”